


Winter's Day

by kelleigh (girlfromcarolina)



Series: Salt Burn Porn [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bottom John, College, Future Fic, Incest, M/M, Matt Cohen as John Winchester, Pseudo-Incest, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-27
Updated: 2013-09-27
Packaged: 2017-12-27 18:54:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlfromcarolina/pseuds/kelleigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What a strange, strange winter's day.  Written for the prompt <i>California dreamin'</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter's Day

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the current round of [Salt, Burn, Porn](http://salt-burn-porn.livejournal.com/). Beta by fiercelynormal :)
> 
> I have such a hard time (*wink*) writing strictly porn. I had a post it note stuck to my laptop that said NO PLOT and I kept crossing out lines that added to the plot, not the porn. This could have easily been triple the length, but we're all here for the porn, so I hope you enjoyed that ;) The pairing is something I've never written, but I think I saw a manip of Jard and Matt Cohen on tumblr, and the idea has been in my subconscious for a while...

All the leaves are brown and the sky is gray. It’s fucking _arctic_ in Boston this morning; Sam’s grateful that the supernatural thrive mostly in the South and along the west coast. Maybe ghosts, ghouls, and beasts hate freezing their balls off as much as humans do.

Sam turns away from the window and waits for the heat to come on. In the meantime, with blankets pulled up to their chins, Sam stares at the man asleep beside him and marvels. And thinks. And disbelieves. And accepts.

And, strangest of all, Sam _wants_.

They met two weeks ago while Sam was staking out a building close to the Boston College campus. The haunting wasn’t confirmed yet, but Sam was sure he could handle it solo while Dean recovered from a broken leg. Sam left his brother in Charlie’s capable, but not very sympathetic, hands. She and Kevin will give Dean plenty of shit for getting himself hurt. Again.

Sam saw him through the Impala’s windshield walking into one of the neon-adorned bars along the street. He listened for the flutter of wings, sniffed for sulfur in the air, but there was nothing to explain away what Sam saw. No longer focused on his supposed haunt, Sam stepped out onto the sidewalk and followed him inside.

He never imagined where that step would lead him.

The radiator heaves an almighty sigh as it switches on, a gust of warm air hitting Sam’s nose. The other man whines softly, rolls towards Sam, and brings their bare skin into contact. He’s beautiful, and Sam knows how _weird_ it is to think like that, but it’s true. Sam knows that if he moves now, his companion will fall out of his dreams and into Sam’s arms like he has every other morning for the past two weeks.

Sam moves.

“I’ve never been with another guy before,” he told Sam in the bar. “Just, um, experimented with myself.” They shared a table in one of the bar’s dark corners away from all of the thumping bass speakers. Sam bought him a beer, and a simple thank you had somehow morphed into a two-hour conversation. Sam wanted to know everything about him.

“But,” he added, sliding his hand across the table and slipping his fingers beneath Sam’s, “I think you should come home with me.”

When Sam nodded, the young man’s face went from handsome to _startling_. Instead of knotting Sam’s stomach, the anticipation coursed through him like a drug.

He’s been riding that same high ever since, each night delivering a new infusion into his veins. And another dose this morning as Sam explores his morning mouth, indifferent to the bitterness. Lingers there only until he’s writhing beneath Sam, fully awake.

It’s warm enough in his bedroom to push the covers down to their hips. Sam ignores his aching joints—not enough sleep, never enough rest—as he inches down the lean chest, tongues over ancient scars that criss-cross the otherwise unblemished skin. Sam bites at the dusky nipples, knows after two weeks that nothing gets his partner’s blood rushing faster than heavy petting and a hint of teeth, and Sam desperately wants him hard and begging for it. _Gagging_ for it. Moaning Sam’s name in that voice that’s so familiar and yet so foreign.

“ _Sam…_ Sam, you know you can’t tease me. You know I’m gonna…”

It might be the same voice, but the tone is something Sam’s never heard before. Sam drags his teeth further down his ribs, leaves indentations behind. There are hands behind Sam’s head now, fingers fierce and digging.

“God, _John_ ,” Sam says, ephemeral words echoing off John’s skin and coming right back to his ears. No way to escape what Sam’s doing, or who he’s with.

It could have been a trick of the waxing moon’s light, the pulse and flash of neon along the street. Sam repeated that mantra to himself when he followed the un-aged twin of his father, who was wearing a gray hooded sweatshirt with a crimson eagle over a baseball embroidered on the front, into the bar. With the image of John from 1978 permanently fixed in his mind, Sam stalked him until he was close enough to hear him order a beer from the bartender, a wide grin on his face.

Sam was rendered speechless, left reeling in a room full of oblivious people. And then John looked over his shoulder, found Sam’s eyes as if he felt the pressure, and his smile stretched even further.

Right now, Sam considers thanking the God he knows is absent—or whichever deity returned his father’s soul to the world—for this gift. The angels certainly aren’t doing the Winchesters any favors at the moment. He and John walked separate paths after his mom’s death, before John sacrificed himself. The man, and his soul – remained a mystery to Sam. But here it is, a second chance to learn. To enjoy without the pressure and the tension that comes with being father and son.

Sam’s lips skim along the trail of dark hair leading down from John’s navel, hands pinning hips that are narrower than he remembers. This version of John still has a lot of filling out to do. The webbing of silvery scars becomes more pronounced as Sam’s kisses lead him lower.

John bites down on his bottom lip, silent while Sam worships the physical proof of his transformation. Sam wonders if this body changed to match the soul placed within, or if the vessel was recreated to hold it. 

“Car crash,” John explained the first night he and Sam fell into bed—fell into a sin only one of them will carry beyond tonight. “It happened when I was eight years old. Drunk driver…you can imagine the rest.” Although Sam didn’t need to; the scars painted a vivid picture. “I was in a coma for over a month before I finally came out of it. Everyone said it was…”

“A miracle,” Sam finished for him.

He scoffed. “It was seriously fucked up, Sam. When I was in high school, I researched my injuries and the accident. Paramedics pronounced me dead before I made it to the hospital, but…” His eyes went dark. “Who gets that _wrong_? But no one could explain it. I should have _died_.”

But he didn’t, and John Winchester—now Jonathan Henry Spencer according to his Pennsylvania driver’s license—lives again.

“I don’t remember any of it,” John told Sam later. “The accident, the hospital… If my parents hadn’t shown me the records and the photos from when I was in a coma, I don’t think I would believe it happened to me.”

Sam inhales through his nose, the scent so familiar, evocative. He pushes memory aside to concentrate on the here and now. On John’s cock in his mouth, the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he attempts to resist the pleasure in which Sam is trying to drown him.

The sun continues to rise as Sam goes down, sucking John’s cock into the back of his throat, nearly to the point of choking. But he relishes the discomfort, the sensation. Everything he’s able to feel with the reincarnation of a man whose death left a hole no one could fill. He may not be the father Sam knew, but he’s the same _man_ , and Sam wants to absorb him, swallow him. His tongue finds the thick veins on the underside of John’s cock, coaxes the blood back and forth with quick swipes. Stretches his lips as wide as they’ll go around the base where the scent of sweat is thick and cloying.

He coaxes John’s thighs farther apart and falls between them, blankets disappearing as they create more and more heat. 

“You gonna stay down there all day?”

“I could,” Sam says before setting his teeth to one of the marks he left on John’s inner thigh last night. His skin is so supple, a blessing of youth that’s fading more and more from Sam’s body as the years of hard living take their toll. Not that John appears to mind—his hands map out the moles and freckles across the back of Sam’s shoulders, wrap around his neck and tug until Sam’s breath is hitting him in just the right spot.

“You don’t have to work?”

John’s under the impression that Sam’s in Boston on extended business (not a straight-up lie, but it’s not like Dean’s providing a paycheck). He laid the spirit to rest over the weekend, meaning Sam should be back in Lebanon by now, rescuing Charlie and Kevin from Dean-sitting. Of course, none of them know about John.

“Wrapped that up yesterday,” Sam tells him, muffled with his face between John’s legs, licking the seam of skin bisecting his sac. He tests John’s ass with one finger, easily slipping inside. He certainly stretched John plenty last night, playing puppeteer with four fingers in John’s ass trying to make him come for the second time.

Sam has to fuck John again—he can’t get enough. “Bet you never thought you’d be such an eager bottom,” Sam told him when they fucked for the second time. He expected John to be sore, unwilling, but the man surprised him by lubing up before Sam arrived, fingers still slick when he tore Sam’s belt out of his pants and tugged his dick out, swiveling around to present his ass while leaning on the back of the couch. John’s patience barely withstood Sam ripping open a condom and rolling it down his dick, thrusting back into the cradle of Sam’s hips as soon as he felt the head breach him.

Sam will definitely leave Boston with a trunk-full of good memories.

John tilts his hips up, brings Sam’s mouth lower. Sam watches him fumble for the crate beside the bed and pull out the lube. They’ve nearly gone through the entire value-sized bottle.

“Does that mean you’re leaving soon?” John asks, loose around two of Sam’s slippery fingers, choking on the last word as Sam crooks his index finger against John’s prostate. Sam’s cock leaps against his stomach, full of blood and throbbing for friction.

Now is _really_ not the time for talking, but time is one thing Sam’s short on. Talk and fuck—he can do two things at once.

“I have to,” he says. “I’ve already been gone for too long.”

Three fingers now, playing at the rim of John’s ass. Enjoying every little hiss and sigh forced past John’s lips.

“Found something worth staying for?” John manages to ask when Sam pulls his hand away to get more lube. Body loose on the sheets, he stares up at Sam with a lopsided grin - _Dean uses the same expression_ \- debauched and perfect.

Sam is _so_ fucked. So fucked up. But he matches John’s smile and slaps the back of his leg. “Shut up and wrap your damn legs around me.”

God bless the flexibility of college boys, Sam thinks as John puts on a show of drawing his knees up and out, trails of sweat and lube making the skin between his legs look wet and inviting. Sam gives him no warning before he pistons forward, hitting John’s hole dead-center.

It always rough in the beginning. Need overwhelms. John’s legs bounce in midair, toes pointed at the ceiling, with every deliberate snap and thrust. Sam’s bulk nearly smothers him as he bears down, presses their chests together and bites the underside of John’s chin. At Stanford, Sam grew taller than his father, but he was never _bigger_. Now he can use his size to his advantage, John at his mercy, slowly circling incoherence.

“You have to promise to come back,” John tells him, words coming slowly, one at a time as if Sam is punching them out of John’s lungs with every drive forward. “I don’t think I can…I don’t want to—”

There’s no answer Sam can give beyond fucking John harder. He’ll feel Sam for days, tie the ache to memory. Eventually, the specifics will fade; John won’t remember Sam’s face, the things he’s said. But Sam will always own John’s first fuck.

That thought appeals to Sam’s primal side. He pulls out and manhandles John over onto his stomach, hooking hands around his hips and tugging him up onto his knees. Sam slides right back in, fucks John with slow, even motions until he finds the perfect angle. John jerks away from the sudden flash of pleasure before sinking right back into Sam’s grip.

“Again,” he begs. “C’mon, Sam. _Fuck me_.”

Sam throws his head back and growls. He reaches around for John’s cock and strokes it in rhythm with his hips. Plays with the head as he presses all the way inside John’s body and goes still, waits for John’s muscles to flutter around his dick. Sam twists his palm and nearly whites out as the ripple moves over his dick like a wave.

John’s knees give out when he comes, falling forward onto the bed and tearing Sam out of the moment. Reactive and raw like an exposed nerve, Sam bears down on top of him, fucks into him again before his body can mutiny. He pounds John’s sensitive body, spasms around his cock telling him that John hasn’t even stopped coming yet, aftershocks wrecking him along his fault lines.

Every orgasm in John’s bed has left Sam wasted and vulnerable, and this one is no different. Grunts muffled against the back of John’s neck, Sam rides it out with short, punctuated thrusts until his body can’t handle any more. John actually sighs when Sam pulls out, body melting into the happy aftermath of a great fuck.

Outside, the sky remains a heavy, threatening gray, wind throwing frigid air against John’s windows. They’re safe indoors, a private haven thick with the scent of sex.

John’s lips are bitten-red and slightly swollen, eyes dark and dazed. After tying and tossing the condom, Sam kisses his slack mouth before collapsing on top of the thoroughly rumpled bed, welcoming John back into his arms before the heat can dissipate.

This will go with Sam to the grave—not just the sex, but John himself. Sam can never tell Dean.

Dean believes John’s soul is in heaven. Personally, Sam thinks this is more fitting. Mary is sharing God’s garden with the rest of her hunting family, but John will fall in love again, have children again, and Sam will challenge anyone, any _thing_ , that tries to use him like Sam’s father was used.

Never again.

It’s not a promise Sam can make out loud, but he repeats it over and over again to himself. He’ll return as often as he needs to in order not to break it.

Sam shivers as the chill in the air reasserts itself, the radiator unable to keep pace with the bitter gusts and lack of warming sunlight. John’s already asleep again, arm thrown across Sam’s chest.

He needs to put Boston in his rearview, but he imagines the groan the Impala will give him if he tries to start her engine today. For the moment, Sam has nowhere else he needs to be.

What a strange, strange winter’s day.

 

FIN


End file.
